The Day of Dithingstump

By Robert Denethon

In a world where England has fallen to the forces of the Germanischen leader Adolf Hister and London is now called New Berlin, a group of rebels in the town of Dithingstump, on the northern border of the Northeastern Reichstadt of Occupied Britain, try to prevent the Reich from spreading Hister’s reign to other universes, alternate universes with different histories. But the machine that will take Hister’s armies to the other-dimenional universes is being built, and soon it will be finished.

Michael is an engineer on the project and must decide whether he will continue to collaborate with the invaders, or make a stand for truth, despite the fact that he might have to sacrifice his scientific career, or even his life.

If you like reading about alternate universes, if you enjoyed Philip K Dick's "The Man in the High Castle," or "Fatherland" by Robert Harris, if the television show "Fringe" is one of your favourites, or you enjoy the CS Lewis novel, "The Dark Tower," then this is a book you will enjoy.

This is the 2nd edition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Denethon
• Release date: Feb 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310186660

Robert Denethon

Robert Denethon is a nom de plum and a character in his own footnotes. The real author lives in Lockridge, Western Australia with his naughty two year old puppy dog, a used piano, and a bunch of burgeoning bookcases. His books were written with you in mind if you like gripping fantasy and sci fi novels, some with strange footnotes, weird invented languages, unusual names, disturbing alternate realities, with a slightly realist bent. In other words, he has attempted to write the kinds of books he likes to read. Think somewhere between the extremes of Philip K Dick, Tolkien, Neal Stephenson, China Miéville. He wants people to read his books and would be extremely pleased if you enjoy them!OTHER BOOKSYou may also wish to view Robert Denethon's other books, written under the name Andrew P Partington https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/AndrewPartington

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The Day of Dithingstump

Robert Denethon

2nd Edition

Copyright © 2016

Submarine Media Pty Ltd

9B Dolan Way

Lockridge 6054

Western Australia

[phone]

Robert Denethon is a nom de plum

DEDICATION

To my G.P.,

Dr Lachlan Dunjey,

Who has always encouraged my ‘sub-creation’,

and shares my love of C.S.Lewis,

and who for my whole life

has pointed me towards

the True Source of real inspiration.

Thank you Dr Dunjey!

You would be a great companion

on a desert island

if I could choose those friends, who,

like good books, would keep me occupied

with interesting conversation.

May you find this book interesting!

Table of Contents

Prologue Sabotage at Spangenhelm

Chapter 1 Rachel’s Resistance

Chapter 2 Entrails

Chapter 3 Distant Thunder

Chapter 4 Faithful

Chapter 5 Risk

Chapter 6 Haverly Through the Rabbit Hole

Chapter 7 Watch, Listen, Wait

Chapter 8 Klangfarben

Chapter 9 Freedom

Chapter 10 Andere Ambits

Chapter 11 Blue Sky

Chapter 12 Eagle

Chapter 13 Tunnels and Twists

Chapter 14 Wormholes

Chapter 15 The Wormhole Ouroboros

Chapter 16 Coup

Glossary of Terms

Prologue

Sabotage at Spangenhelm

The smell of new rain – a delicious scent, even on such a dark night as this – came wafting on the breeze as Hauptmann Marchant Greenstock walked quickly and quietly over the round, wet paving stones of the town bridge, down a broad stone road past the cottages and into the outskirts of Dithingstump.

The rain pecked at Marchant’s umbrella in annoyingly short bursts. He stayed in the shadows so that nothing on his uniform glinted, with its shiny brass buttons and fluorescent captain’s stripes, and breathed in nervous, shallow gasps. He did not want to draw attention to himself tonight.

The old buildings and the ancient trees stood like ominous watchful sentinels above the twisted streetlamps, whose yellow sickly light struggled to escape the shadows of the high rooftops. Puddles reflected the sky, apparently hoping to catch a glimpse of starlight, but there were only bleak, black clouds and pale fearful faces, peering momentarily through cracks in shut curtains. An airship floated silently from the east to the west sporting the circular symbol of the Reich; it was a typical night in the town of Dithingstump, on the northern border of the Northeastern Reichstadt of Occupied Britain, one of the boroughs in Histerstadt, Britain’s official name for the last twenty years since the war ended.

As he passed the low stones wall that marked the end of the old town, Marchant caught a glimpse of someone in the shadows, standing beneath an ancient, gnarled oak tree; a short, slender man, wearing a peaked hat. He glanced back – the weird vision was gone - and rubbed his eyes, wondering if he was over-tired.

The forest around here was peculiar. The old, twisted trees, their branches bending over in the darkness, suggested strange, disturbing thoughts.

As he crossed the last few yards of the forest into the land belonging to Spangenhelm military base Marchant patted his left breast pocket to ensure that he had brought his gun, for he knew that he might need it. He wore leather gloves. In his left hand he held a crowbar and a screwdriver. He did not take his usual route to the front gate of the base, but circled around the large pine trees to the south instead.

He looked at his watch – twenty minutes after four. He knew the guard was changing even as he walked past the rear entrance, the large roller door where tradesmen bring their tools and trucks their wares. There was a garden bed just past the roller door and he scuffed his shoes in it, careful not to make a clear print, then he brought out a pair of boltcutters and cut a hole in the wire fence.

Bringing out his keys he swiftly unlocked a small door to the left of the roller door and slipped through, careful to stay out of range of the cameras. He went into the alley where the rubbish bins were. He slammed his shoulder against a door and it opened. Hauptmann Marchant himself had identified this blind spot in the security arrangements in the last review, but Obersturmbannführer Kammler had done nothing about it. Now Marchant was exploiting it.

He walked through the grey halls, again watchful in case the cameras rotating lazily on their rounds caught sight of him. Marchant had mapped their movements – he knew every blind spot and every weakness. He slipped into a doorway here, then into a cupboard or a room there, or stood still until a camera turned away. He reached the second security wall and took out a small piece of aluminium and jammed it into slot of the card reader with a sudden thrust of his crowbar. The card reader tried to read the piece of aluminium, whizzing and grinding jerkily, then whirred to a stop.

Marchant knew what would happen next. Someone had accidentally tried to insert the wrong card into the card reader the week before, their driver’s license, thicker and less flexible than the military identity cards, and it had jammed the reader and the system had failed. He had specifically chosen the piece of metal to be the same width and general dimensions as a driver’s license. The main security gate tried to lock, but Marchant already had his screwdriver in the gap at just the right spot – the gate clicked several times and then the mechanism came to a stop – he prised open the gap, enough to jam the crowbar in. He levered the gate open with the crowbar.

The gate’s mechanism clicked and then it opened. He walked through.

He walked down the passageway and through the final door, breathing a little easier. He had almost made it.

But then he realised he had miscalculated the time – or perhaps the guards are late tonight, he wondered. The corporal on the other side of the door was still at his post – they should have been changing already. The guard glanced up, his gun twitching, then he said, Oh, it’s you Hauptmann. You’re early. Marchant nodded, said Unteroffizier, and walked past.

For a moment Marchant wondered if he should kill him. He decided not to – a small mercy he was later to regret – then made his way to the machine.

It was behind a door marked with Danger – Radiation – Marchant knew that this was not true. A far greater danger lay behind this door. He went through.

The security detachment had recently taken a tour of the facility – Hauptmann Marchant knew exactly where the sensitive parts were.

Taking a heavy pair of rubber gloves and some large boltcutters from the tool cupboard, he opened a panel marked High Voltage – 100,000 volts! and identified the thick power cable. He cut the cable, dragged it out of its cradle and thrusted it into the most sensitive part of the machine, where the tiny Enigma circuits lay, in which swift calculations were performed many times per second. Sparks spurted out of the circuit board and a loud alarm began to sound. Marchant looked around in surprise – he did not think the alarms had been installed yet. The shouts of the guards and their footsteps ring through the corridors – they were already on their way! He dropped the cable and the gloves and ran for his life.

Chapter One

Rachel’s Resistance

A week earlier, on a similar dark, dank, Dithingstump night, Marchant Greenstock had been walking quickly and quietly down a broad stone stairway, through a grassed park and into a tunnel lit by a single pale yellow electric light hanging from the roof. The light was swaying to and fro in the wind and making the trickle of water that dribbled along the tiled floor twinkle like a gaudy advertisement. The shaking light did little to dispel the gloom and dankness of the tunnel.

Somewhere in the distance the Hister Youth had been holding a rally that night. Although it was well past ten o’clock the crowd of boys and young men was still wide awake, continuing their frenzied chanting, Hister! Hister! Hister! Hister! They never seemed to stop.

The sound carried over the hills at the edge of the river and into the town of Dithingstump like distant thunder, reverberating in the tunnel. It was almost poetic at this distance, as if their self-deludedness didn’t matter, as though their insanity could be swallowed by the distance and immensity of the vast, granite-grey sky. Marchant hurried through the tunnel, half-spooked by his own thoughts.

Reaching a wooden door hidden behind a brick wall in the bend of the tunnel, Marchant knocked softly, twice.

Michael Haverly opened it – everyone just called him Haverly. It was his place.

The smell of roast lamb came wafting out and Marchant’s mouth began to water. Come in, Marchant, come in. You’re not too late – we’re just about to start dinner. Michael’s here –

He meant Doctor Michael Spurling – Marchant recalled that Doctor Spurling was a second cousin of Haverly’s or something. He was a theoretical physicist working at Spangenhelm – Marchant had run into him once or twice. He didn’t like being called ‘Doctor’ so he was just Michael to his friends and acquaintances.

And Prosten.

The old man sitting at the table near the corner of the room nodded. Prosten was a man of few words and Marchant didn’t even know whether Prosten was his first name or his surname.

Marchant handed Haverly a bottle of contraband wine. How did you -?

Don’t ask, said Marchant, A privilege of being head of security at Spangenhelm.

He walked into the small entry parlor and saw Rachel sitting at the table.

Haverly saw and said, Oh. And Rachel.

Rachel nodded, a peculiar half smile on her lips. Marchant smiled grimly. Rachel Selah. He liked her sense of humour, even if he never knew if it was sardonic or simply bitter. Actually, he liked everything about her. She worked at the printing press, in the basement, and seemed to avoid the customers.

He looked around the room, stared at the tiles on the wall, trying not to show how much he was aware of her presence, wondering momentarily if there was something between her and Haverly. Surely not, he thought. Haverly’s too old. He tried too hard not to stare at her, surely it was obvious how he felt. He had not seen her frequently – perhaps six or seven times during the last year – but there was something different about her now, an attractiveness, a strength that seemed to glow around her like sunlight.

Marchant sat down at the table as Haverly began to slice pieces off the roast, and heard himself saying, The Hister Youth are marching again tonight. Fools, surprised at the vehemence in his own voice.

Glad you can talk freely, said Rachel. Even her sneer was attractive.

Wind and rain battered at a tiny window, little more than a portal, in the rear of the apartment, and a distant sound troubled the air, real thunder this time.

Haverly continued to slice. He glanced at Rachel, then at Marchant.

Haverly said, They are not to blame for what they are. What choice have they? and for a moment Marchant’s breath caught in his throat because he thought Haverly was talking about Rachel, but he was actually talking about the distant marchers.

Haverly got to the point.

I’ve called you together because they’re doing something at Spangenhelm. I need people inside. Ordinarily we don’t contact our subscribers.

He slapped some meat on their plates, and a few vegetables, then they passed the gravy around. But, as I have told you before, we need to know what’s going on in there. We want contacts inside. I hope you realise what a risk we took by contacting you last year, Hauptmann Greenstock. Michael checked you out, though, whatever that means.

Thought it’d be a laugh to have the captain of Spangenhelm’s security detachment here at our little meetings... You don’t keep our addresses hanging around somewhere do you, uncle? asked Michael. I’d hate to think you’ve got a list of your subscribers laying around where any old stormtrooper can find it.

Of course not, said Haverly, a little rudely, Marchant thought. Rachel keeps the list – she remembers every single one of them. She has a photographic memory. You knew that didn’t you? You’re just being difficult as usual.

3-42 Grossbarden way, Dithingstump North, A523, that’s Haverly’s, said Rachel to prove the point. Haverly nodded and began to eat his roast. The meat was delicious.

Amazing, said Michael, in a tone that seemed to say he thought it just a parlour trick. Completely amazing.

But then how do you know my profession? asked Marchant. I am a little nervous for my privacy. I know I didn’t ask you this, any of the other times, but if I’m going to start telling you things…

We must do our research as well. Michael told me; he is one of the scientists, said Haverly. He is my nephew, Hauptmann Greenstock. He saw you at the base. Don’t worry, his stupid questions are merely his childish substitute for a sense of humour.

Michael said, I told my uncle I am not doing any of his errands. It is enough for me to risk my neck by coming to see him on the odd occasion, in his little den of thieves here. And to answer his occasional questions, for instance, the question about you. Stupid of me, though, to do either. Don’t let him talk you into doing anything.

Haverly almost seemed to be pleading with Michael. This could be a matter of life and death, Michael, please, I know you could tell us. Hister has a large project on the go – a scientific project. Michael will not tell me what it is, and he is at the centre of it. I need you to tell me - please tell me, Michael. Tell me what’s going on.

Haverly glared at his nephew. Michael appeared completely unaffected by his uncle’s hostility, at least as far as Marchant could tell.

Michael said, Oh, Uncle, I’m forbidden to speak of it, and I don’t want to be one of the casualties of your rebellion. Where else can a physicist work but for the government? They run everything. There is no one else a scientist can work for, not in the so-called ‘free world’, well apart from the schools and I’m not going to be a schoolteacher – couldn’t stand that, I’m a theoretical physicist. And right now I have as much research money as I want. Hister would rather have us spend millions on his funny little notions than spend his taxes on the poor, or upgrading the trains, or educating the masses. And some of his ideas, believe it or not, lead to things – marvellous things – uncle, I am increasing human knowledge… Can a man of genius ask for more? Why, even such a mediocre scientist as I am might discover something worthwhile given the virtually unlimited funds the Reich has at its disposal these days in Occupied Britain. Hmmph.

"I’m just asking, Michael. I know how